


sorrow is a good look on you

by luni



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Anxiety, M/M, Miscommunication, Self Confidence Issues, ah the beloved ep11 cliffhanger, better late than never, i should've probably published this sooner, mentions of body image issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-12-29
Updated: 2016-12-29
Packaged: 2018-09-13 06:45:28
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,495
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9111175
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/luni/pseuds/luni
Summary: "I'm tired of disappointing everyone all the time. I'm tired of holding you down and killing your career with every flubbed jump and low score I get. I'm so tired, Victor."Of course, he hears none of that.





	

**Author's Note:**

> i'm horrible and you can never have enough ep11 fics  
> enjoy i guess. l o l

Slippery ice sharpens and claws through his hand - he's failed.

 

 

 

The costume clings to his sweaty skin to the point of asphyxiation, stretches and pulls at the bruised palm of his right hand, digs into the wretched softness circling his hips whenever he sits down or, for instance, has his back bowed under the weight of disappointment.

  
Yuuri chooses to read that 97.83 as a rightful slap to the face, and the costume digs deeper and deeper, his back bows further and further, the seams of the costume surely leaving red angry marks for a later time: he almost relishes the pain, a constant reminder that he has to better himself, to push himself through the imperfections of his body, to strive and fight tooth and nail for the minimum reward - yes, but for what?

  
Months of work on the Eros routine, and all he can manage is to shoot too-angry-too-focused glares at who he should seduce, failing to convey even the slightest hint of eros, and flubbing the most important jump.

  
He isn't disappointed. He's just sad, and he tries to convince himself that it's just sadness, because then maybe Victor will believe him.

  
Maybe Victor will turn a blind eye.

  
(He wishes he would read his mind and do something because Yuuri is out of options and running low on confidence. Of course, Victor will never know that.)

  
How sad.

 

 

 

Disgust grows stronger by the second in Yuuri's stomach as he unzips his Eros costume, and pulls at the sleeves a bit too roughly, because the earlier he takes it off the better. Usually, he would take his sweet time, especially with Victor being in the same room, but this isn't the case because Victor is still outside doing who-knows-what, he didn't bothered to check, and _really_ , who would even want to feel seductive after such a low score on the ice, wearing such a costume, too black and clingy and sticky, soaked in memories of mechanic step sequences and bland jumps?

  
Normally, the fabric would be the darkest shade of black on Yuuri's body, save for his eyes, half-lidded, burning with the desire to show everyone what the could do with his presence alone; now they are bathed in a pale shade of hazel, unfocused, shivering at the mere thought of seeing his skin connect with that costume.

  
Yuuri fears he'll never be able to embody eros again.

  
_"Is this all your new student can do?"_

  
The hotel room is too small, his bare shoulders too cold, his heart thumps too loud against the walls of his ribcage.

  
_"You should have stayed in Russia."_

  
The voices are louder than ever, even louder than Victor's, as the door opens and he excuses himself for being late.

  
_"What a waste of time."_

  
"Yuuri, I thought you showered already!" Victor pouts, closing the door behind him and toeing his shoes off at the same time. His scarf and coat are still on as he approaches Yuuri, inquiring eyes studying the flushed skin of his shoulders and back. Yuuri doesn't answer, fighting the urge to throw up.

  
Victor seems to pick up on that - _as always_ \- and asks him what's wrong, caressing Yuuri's skin with a hesitant hand, where neck meets shoulder.

  
"The hotel staff moved our beds apart again," is all Yuuri can manage to deadpan, his gaze fixed on the tip of Victor's nose, red and dry. Victor smiles at that, circling a birthmark on Yuuri's shoulder with lazy fingers, waiting for further explanations that will never come.

  
As Yuuri clears his throat, biting back sour and nauseating feelings, Victor blinks and something shifts in his expression. "Then I'll just push them back together. Go take a shower and relax," he reassures him, kissing his flushed cheek softly. "You need all the rest you can get for tomorrow."

  
(It's always easy for Victor to find simple solutions to Yuuri's half-spoken, deep-rooted problems, but despite being a five-time gold medalist he isn't gifted with telepathy.)

  
Yuuri sighs, fleeing to the bathroom as his fiancé effectively pushes their beds back together.

  
He locks the door.

 

 

  
(Sometimes Yuuri wishes Victor would stop meeting him halfway, tearing all the boundaries down and just _help_ him.)

 

 

  
They lay in bed, Yuuri with his eyes closed, as Victor peppers his face with small kisses.

  
"What about the shower?"

  
Victor purrs, stealing a deeper kiss on the corner of Yuuri's mouth, lips slightly parted. "Personal hygiene can wait."

  
Those words send a spark of worry down Yuuri's spine: he really isn't in the mood - he knows that Victor would always ask before doing anything, but the mere thought of having to tell him no is startling. Victor is gentle, armed with a patience shown through slower kisses and featherlight touches, but Yuuri feels guilty nonetheless, and disgusting, and a failure.

  
The intrusive thoughts slice at Yuuri's breathing: Victor notices almost instantly, tilting his head to look at him in the eye. "I understand if you don't want to talk about it."

  
A knot of hot tears bubble up in Yuuri's throat, preventing him from answering: he settles for shaking his head, cheek pressed up against the pillow. Even being side to side with Victor, on his bed, makes it difficult to look him in the eye or even touch him. So close, yet so distant.

  
Yuuri appreciates sarcasm to a degree when he himself is concerned.

  
"Yuuri."

  
He sighs, hoping it's enough of an answer. Victor wastes no time, resting a warm hand on Yuuri's heart.

  
"I don't know what goes on in that head of yours most of the time, but please don't be too hard on yourself. That's all I ask."

  
_One day you'll grow tired of reaching out to me._

  
"We need to talk."

  
_I already am. I'm tired of disappointing everyone all the time. I'm tired of holding you down and killing your career with every flubbed jump and low score I get. I'm so tired, Victor._

  
(Of course, he hears none of that.)

  
Victor hums deep in his throat, clearly at a loss for words. "I'll go take a shower, then we can talk. I won't be long," he assures, and a kiss on the forehead is all Yuuri gets before he disappears behind an unlocked bathroom door.

  
As soon as the sound of running water bleeds through the silence, Yuuri rolls on the opposite side, eyes staring right through the window and through the impossibly tall buildings surrounding the hotel. A single, plump tear rolls its way down towards the pillow, crossing the bridge of Yuuri's nose.

  
He curls up in a ball and shivers, hugging himself tightly, ragged breath clogging up his throat to block the whimpers and sobs he desperately needs to let out. Yuuri wishes Victor would hear him, no matter how quietly he cries, he wishes he would walk out of the bathroom right this instant and ask him what happened, why is he crying, holding him tight until next morning, but another part of Yuuri - dark, and bitter, and clothed in self-hatred, never wants to look at Victor again, _because that's the way it should be, you're just a waste of his time, the poison seeping through his career._

 

 

 

(Winning Victor from the world is something he was always prepared to do, but winning the world from Victor is his worst nightmare.)

 

 

 

Yuuri rubs at his eyes with a clammy hand, sitting on the edge of the bed, when he comes out of the bathroom: he notices he's busy scrolling through Instagram (keeping his head tilted down until bloodshot eyes are no longer noticeable), so Victor sits on the windowsill, brushing through wet strands of hair with a fluffy white towel.

  
They stay in silence until Yuuri cracks open, voice firm and quiet, talking about the new photos on his feed. Victor is content, a relaxed smile stretched on his face, damp hair glistening in the warm yellow light of the bedroom. His bathrobe is tied loosely around the hips, exposing pale skin and the paths of lazy droplets of water dripping down his hair and chin and collarbones.

  
He's stunning. Maybe, Yuuri thinks with an inner grimace, it's Fate's last resort to keep him from going down the roughest path.

  
"By the way, Yuuri... what did you want to talk about?"

  
Victor's eyes lit up with sincere curiosity, pupils stretched out to the edges of bright blue irises. Yuuri knows he will never see beauty again, after breaking him.

  
He smiles the same smile of all those weeks ago, at the Cup of China during his free skate, when he cried his heart out and focused on his performance, numb feelings kicked to the back of his skull because they weren't needed.

  
_I'm sorry that the only thing I'm good at is hurting you._

  
"After the Final... let's end this."

 

 

  
Victor shatters, and takes Yuuri's breath away with him, one tear at a time.

 

 

 

(Oh, he's still beautiful.)


End file.
